by Lucy Ellmann
Our Hero’s Adolescence
After the death of his father, who was not much mourned except by Sandy, Robert had most of the responsibility of taking care of his mother. She was not to be outdone by her husband, and proceeded to come down with a succession of serious illnesses. Dragged in to visit her after her mastectomy, the boy was appalled by an orangey-pink liquid draining from the hidden wound into a plastic bag. The doctors called it serum, but Robert thought they were saying ‘syrup’. He was disgusted by the thought of putting that on his pancakes.
She had skin cancer on one eyelid, the treatment for which was to place a metal plate over the eye-ball and then zap the eyelid with radiation, entirely without anaesthetic. It usually took legions of incompetent nurses to get the metal plate on to the eye, while Robert held his mother’s hand. And this agony was inflicted three times a week for a month.
They operated on her brain once. In Intensive Care he met her shaved head and her pale moon face. Another moon to stare at him without knowing him. She poked at the patterned holes in the hospital blanket, with no idea that it was a hospital or a blanket. He gave the moon creature a ring, which she fingered in her childish way. But she seemed to like it. He put it on her finger. When she was better, not knowing how she had acquired it, she threw the cheap thing away.
Robert had no opportunity to be a difficult teenager, but he did fall in love. Gail seduced him. She took him to the movies. They smoked grass on the beach and kissed among sand dunes. Robert considered himself the first person to see a correlation between breasts and sand dunes. Gail’s pubic triangle was another lesson in geometry. In return, he showed Gail his magic tricks, that he’d practised so assiduously so alone. ‘Contrary to public belief, you don’t have to have large hands to palm a card.’
His mother shrieked at him for going out so much when she was ill. But he had his own bones of contention. She was ALWAYS ill. Where had she been all his life? In bed or on the couch. His friends annoyed their parents by not turning up on time for dinner. HE had to COOK the dinner.
And Gail loved him. The ancient baby in him needed that. The baby in him remembered a prehistoric, prehensile time when a woman had wrapped him up in her love. The loss of which was something he’d hoped to amend ever since – with magic tricks if necessary.
Our Hero’s Job
Escaping to Yale, Robert was still inundated with his mother’s needs, transmitted by letter. Her every headache was recorded and sent off by air mail.
He was pleased to be offered a Junior Lectureship at the Catafalque in London while still a graduate student. Academic jobs were scarce and an additional 3,000 miles between him and his mother had its appeal. He immediately set about selling off the kitsch paraphernalia with which he was still encumbered, to finance his trip. The Mickey Mouse lamp-shade had to go – a collector’s item, it fetched $300. The lamp-stand had been made from an ancient Milk of Magnesia bottle – $45. The walls of his graduate apartment on St Ronan Street, in a rather beautiful part of New Haven, were covered with fifties ads and movie posters – $200 each. And so it went. Bottle tops, baseball cards, old hairspray cans, his pink poodle place-mats, his plastic DNA molecule, his Leopold Stokowski cigarette-lighter/ash-tray, the lot.
So it was somewhat to his dismay that he found on arrival in London that he did not have a job at the Catafalque Institute after all. A man named Lionel Syms had got it. In all his arrangements for his move to England, Robert had forgotten to sign the contract the Catafalque had sent him. He’d thought it was just a formality. The arrival of Robert in person would be proof enough of his acceptance of the post. But Lionel Syms (then a mere part-time sycophant at the Catafalque), among others (those particularly subject to anti-American sentiments), chose to believe that Robert didn’t want the job. It must be admitted that the academic climate in Britain in the early eighties did not encourage gracious acceptance of defeat: Syms was aware that if he failed to get a lectureship at the Catafalque at this stage, he would be stuck for many years in some provincial backwater awaiting the death of Splutters, Cragshaw, Basilisk or the rest, with every chance that even then, given the cuts in educational spending by the government, there would be no vacancies. Desperate times.
Syms tried to make it up to Robert though, by getting him various reviewing jobs on low-budget magazines like Time Out. Robert wrote for The Times Literary Supplement too, for the sake of its American circulation. He was busily applying for jobs back home now.
But he lingered. There was something about the quiet anonymity of London that agreed with him. He liked pubs. They were less depressing than bars in America, which were kept puritanically dingy. One could drink an indecent amount in a pub and still feel civilized. And through Syms, whom he occasionally met for a drink, he’d found a great flat. He gained weight, made friends, wrote to his mother, and stayed put, except for two weeks at home every Christmas.
Suffering a little from the stodgy cuisine of his adopted country, he opened the front door one day to let in a little air. Instead, in waltzed Isabel, an odd figure in her long skirt and high heels. He noted that her hair was brown and her eyes translucent blue.
The Splendid Young Man’s Proposal
The Catafalque Institute was not holding up well in the modern world in one particularly pressing respect: its finances were in terrible shape. None of its directors had ever been any good at mathematics; they even went so far as to be proud of this disability. But now something had to be done. Of the many members of staff whose services were no longer required, none had volunteered for redundancy. That they might have out-stayed their welcome was of no matter. The essential absurdity of the Catafalque was founded on the fact that here the untenable was taught by the tenacious. The Catafalque boasted a great number of insensible people professing sensibility, undaunted by the most awkward rational impulse. Catalfalquians were not voluntary redundancy material.
Accepting more foreign students had been contemplated, as these were forced to pay huge fees. But who wanted a load of foreigners trotting about the place? It was also understood that the Institute’s minor collection of paintings could reach high prices at Sotheby’s if the market was handled properly, but the Catafalque had never sunk to selling its collection, and the novelty of the idea was not in its favour.
Meanwhile, the outlay of resources was becoming a nuisance. There was the aged lift to consider. It had to be kept in good order to keep the aged staff going up and down. The marbled pillars needed retouching. In fact, it had even been suggested that the grand but crumbling structure in Purport Place should be abandoned to property developers, and new premises sought in Woolwich or Willesden.
Intent on avoiding such a catastrophe, the Finance Committee called a general meeting, to see if they could ransack the tutors’ minds for an inspiring idea. The response was not, on the whole, helpful. Some individuals were actually prepared to joke about the matter. Sir Humphrey wittily offered to have a word with the Palace about it. Perhaps the Queen would organize a Jumble Sale for them. Dr Lotus said quite seriously that she would be happy to devote her spare hours to writing a best-selling novel, if that would be of any assistance. Splutters said he was keen to do some extra private tutoring. Cragshaw said not a word, worried mainly that he might be forced to cut back on camera film.
Only the Splendid Young Man, spurred on by personal antipathy, managed to come up with a scheme which stirred the imagination. After an initial sounding-out of support, he prepared a short paper which he tacked up on the Staff Room bulletin board a few days later.
The Splendid Young Man’s Actual Written Proposal
Sirs,
The history of our Gardens, despite their prime position behind Purport Place, is one of declining use. How are we to account for this, when any student is welcome, if weather allows, to roam the verdant paths and mossy beds? No doubt it is not my place here to make assertions regarding a certain member, as it were, of staff, who can sometimes be sighted therein, pursuing activities of varying
appropriateness considering the high aims of this institution. I refer of course to particular uses of the umbrella, unrelated to rain.
There is also the eyesore at the bottom of the Gardens, a prefab, where I believe an obscure scholarly endeavour is being conducted. I’m sure most of you will agree that what the Gardens need is a wholesome new image.
It is my humble belief that this could be effected through the introduction of a good all-weather tennis court. Even Art Historians need to keep trim! I myself take exercise of some sort every day. With the advent of a tennis court, not only would the Catafalque be able to hold its own against the charms of other colleges offering leisure facilities, but the aforementioned activities might be tactfully discouraged. The Gardens might then be more at the disposal of those students and tutors who are able to maintain a decent level of decorum. An increased intake of students, combined with the sad but inevitable decline in the number of lecturers, would lead to great improvements in the Catafalque’s finances.
I have investigated the technical details involved in my proposal, and find the most reasonable price to be in the region of £17,000. The surface would be of sand-filled artificial grass laid on a 35 mm base of bitmac above 150 mm of crushed rock bottoming. There would be a green plastic-coated chainlink perimeter fence 2.76 metres high, the dimensions being 112 × 54 feet.
If the straight lines of the court and its perimeter fence are considered aesthetically displeasing, they might easily be softened by growing a hedge, or by covering the fence with clematis, roses, honeysuckle and other creepers. I have no views on this.
The Splendid Young Man and His Tennis Court
In between the essays, full of innuendo, of students he had whipped up to a fearsome degree of admiration, and feeling sick with love for Pol (he knew not why), the Splendid Young Man energetically propounded in every quarter the beauties of his tennis court plan. The students were most enthusiastic.
An evening meeting was arranged for tutors to discuss the matter. Wine would be served. None the less, Cragshaw did not even turn up. He could see that the whole business was a subtle attempt to drive him out, thus freeing his prefab for tennis rackets and après-sport trysts. He was particularly irked by Syms’s attempt, in his elaborations on the subject of gravel and perimeter fencing and such things, to imitate, perhaps even to outdo, Cragshaw’s own aptitude for practical information.
But those who did attend the meeting had many interesting questions to put to the Splendid Young Man, not least because this prolonged the rare opportunity to drink wine at the Catafalque’s expense. Sir Humphrey gallantly got the ball rolling.
‘If it is merely the students we wish to please, would not a fairground roller-coaster or an all-night bar attract as many to our noble halls, Lionel, and even bring in some revenue of their own, which I take it the tennis court will not do?’
‘No, we will certainly not be asking people to pay for use of the court,’ replied Syms. ‘That would not be in keeping with the impression of gentlemanly ease we would wish to create. Nor would a roller-coaster, though very wittily suggested, Sir Humphrey.’
‘Would there be some noise involved?’ asked Angelica Lotus, who now planned to write a novel anyway, along with various other plans she was hatching.
‘For myself, I find the sound of tennis pleasantly evocative. However, with so many trees, it would not carry far,’ said Syms, returning every volley with becoming restraint.
‘I object on aesthetic grounds,’ spluttered Splutters.
‘Our perception of what is ugly depends largely on the context,’ murmured Syms, thinking of Pol.
‘There is a distinction,’ Splutters blustered on, ‘between formal gardens, ornamental gardens, parkland gardens, woodland gardens and gardens full of tennis balls, would you not agree?’
‘I was not aware of your great respect for gardens, Splutters. But to my mind, they are there to be used.’
‘But a tennis court would compromise the essential integrity of the original Georgian plan,’ said Splutters.
‘My guess,’ guessed the Splendid Young Man, ‘since we ARE just guessing here, is that the original planners would not be at all surprised and would indeed welcome a tennis court.’
‘Be that as it may, it is surely of limited appeal to the tutors,’ pursued Splutters, losing ground.
‘Actually, I have been gratified that a number of very elderly tutors have told me they look forward to coming into the Gardens after their retirement specifically to watch a game.’
‘Croquet or boules would be more suitable.’
‘I don’t think they can have quite the same appeal or impact as tennis on a good all-weather court.’
‘Well, as to weather, do you seriously believe that anyone is going to want to play tennis in the rain?’
‘You could always offer them your brolly, Splutters,’ sneered the Splendid Young Man.
People burped and slurped up the remains of their wine in the uncomfortable silence that followed, and after a vote, which tended shakily towards the affirmative, the gathering broke up. The Splendid Young Man, well satisfied with his proposal’s progress for the time being, headed off into the darkness and dankness of London to meet Pol. He wanted to check what was in her navel tonight. He loved all her knobs and buttons, her levers and spring-catches. He was intrigued by the technicalities involved in screwing her.
Pol’s Plan
By this time, Pol was finding life with Isabel almost unbearable. She considered Isabel’s presence strangely corrupting. Hundreds of Babs Cartwheel books now lay on Pol’s sagging shelves. They were taking over the flat. Frightening to think that Isabel’s head was stuffed to the brim with these pathetically lustful, reprehensibly idealized notions. It was like living with a volcano.
What’s more, Isabel was always holding her legs together. Whatever position she adopted, whether lying on the sofa watching TV or sitting in a seminar, probably even when she was getting out of a BATH-TUB, the legs were stuck firmly together. Pol had narrowed the whole problem with Isabel down to these legs. If only they were touching each other in some clandestine form of masturbation, or if Isabel had a congenital hip problem, Pol could have forgiven it.
Pol decided to seduce Isabel herself. It seemed almost a duty. She bought gin, having noticed Isabel’s predilection for the stuff. They sat up late one night drinking gin and tonics, which Isabel prepared with exasperating accuracy, using a tiny measuring cup. Pol left the choice of music up to Isabel too. It was Frank Sinatra. This was to be Isabel’s night, everything geared towards her satisfaction.
As usual, the conversation turned to Isabel’s current fantasy objects: a few dead film stars, some still extant TV personalities, and the Splendid Young Man at the Catafalque. Pol was supposed to help her estimate the likelihood of any of these falling passionately in love with Isabel in the foreseeable future. The two of them had long since given up discussing Pol’s love-life. For Isabel it distressingly failed to strike a note of true romance. It seemed extremely shabby when seen against the bright fantasies of married life that Isabel entertained most of the day and night. No comparison, really.
‘I just can’t tell whether the Splendid Young Man likes me or not,’ Isabel rambled dizzily on.
‘Are you sure you’d like HIM if he decided he liked you?’
‘Oh, he’s such a fine man …’
‘Fine men should be seen and not heard, shaken not stirred,’ declaimed Pol. She was tired of his name-dropping, and his effete belief in the superiority of art over life. Pol preferred a real tree to a Constable any day. The Splendid Young Man was all balls. ‘It would be a lot easier if we just liked women, don’t you think?’ Pol said, omitting the fact that her female paramours were just as difficult as the men, especially when abandoned.
‘WHAT? Oh, I could never do that! Could you ever?’
‘Ever what?’ Pol poured some more gin straight from the bottle into their glasses.
‘Well … Sleep … with … a … w
oman,’ said Isabel, punctuating herself in the manner of a romantic heroine.
‘Sure.’
‘WHAT? Have you … ever …?’
‘What’s the big difference? An orgasm’s an orgasm,’ said Pol, doing a somersault on the floor which startlingly revealed her omission of knickers that day.
‘WHAT? But surely it’s … it’s the alien … quality of a man that makes him … interesting?’ said Isabel, gulping some gin and looking away.
‘Would you stop prefacing your every stunned response with the word, “WHAT”?’ said Pol, becoming dismally aware that she was losing this battle. ‘Women are pretty alien too, you know, when you start thinking of them as sexual objects. In fact, that’s how I think of YOU sometimes.’ Resuming her place on the sofa, Pol prepared to separate those legs.
‘What?’ said Isabel.
‘It would be very convenient, living and sleeping together. We’d save some money on the gas fires.’ Pol leaned forward slowly, and gently pushed her tongue into Isabel’s alien mouth and put her hand on one tiny alien breast.
After a moment of complete immobility, Isabel gasped, speechless for once, and ran to her room, locking the door. Frank Sinatra petered out. It was not one of Pol’s most successful exploits.
The 32-year-old Woman’s Inviolable Heterosexuality
Surprising though it may seem, I was greatly enjoying my meetings with Dr Cragshaw.
He seemed quite keen on me after all.
Or at least appreciative of my work.
Perhaps not so keen on ME.
Not in a romantic sense.
But I was not concerned about romance.
In fact, due to certain disturbing events, I was less concerned about it than usual.
